


Point

by Layni1771



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Friendship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Sex, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mentions of Cancer, None of this is happy, Platonic Relationships, Please be careful before you read this, Promiscuity, Self-Hatred, Smoking, Suicidal Thoughts, Toxic Relationships, Triggers, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, i just reread this the hyung line deserves better i'm sorry, kind of? it's hard to describe, self-neglect, unhappy people hurting themselves and each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-23
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-08-28 01:23:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16713889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Layni1771/pseuds/Layni1771
Summary: They only know how to say the wrong things.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Please note all the tags and think of yourself before reading. Stay safe. <3
> 
> I don't quite recall why I wrote this fic, it was a handful of months ago. Perhaps I was projecting again djfhgdf. But when you reach the final chapter, the ending is truly up to you. Choose to believe whatever you feel fits best.
> 
> For any regular readers of mine, I'm pretty sure this is the last new fic I'll be posting for some time so I can focus on longer projects and my multi-chapters. I hope we can continue to meet in those pieces! As always, not proofread so please excuse any errors.

"You ever wanna die?" Changbin asks casually, playing with the cotton candy in his hands. He pulls out tufts and presses them between his fingers. Minho knows he likes the feeling of the sugar compacted as a small ball for just a moment before it dissolves into nothing more than stickiness. The question makes him pull his still-unlit cigarette from between his lips, eyebrows drawing together as he tries to get a read on the situation at hand. Before he says anything, Minho wants to know if this is a confession or just one of those deep conversations that happen once a thought gets stuck in your head. His eyes roam, and he notes the way Changbin's feet hit against the concrete of the bridge they are on, ever-swinging. The younger's eyes aren't teary, but they are shinier than makes him comfortable and Minho sighs, because he has found the answer he didn't want. He pulls the lighter from his jacket pocket and ignites the flame, watching it dance and flicker for a few moments before he lights the end of his cigarette. Minho drops the lighter in the space between them with a clatter.

"I mean, yeah," He leans back. He still hasn't brought his smoke to mouth, instead watching it burn where he holds it by his thigh. Changbin won't look at him, and it makes anxiety curl in his gut. They're high up, and he hopes the teen isn't about to make him test his reflexes. Minho isn't confident he would emerge the victor, "Not so much these days, but in the past I thought about it a lot. Figuring it would be easier, you know?"

Changbin makes an affirmative noise, and one corner of his lips turn up in a way that reeks of self-deprecation. His gaze is turned down, towards the dark waters that move restlessly beneath their feet. Minho slides his hand a little closer, chewing the fleshiest parts of the inside of his cheeks. The skin is already dead, bunched together from constant abuse. He knows he had plenty of bad habits he needs to take care of, but as it is he's much more concerned for Changbin and what might happen if he doesn't say or do things right tonight. One question presses him the most- _What does Changbin want to get out of saying that?_ Is he looking for validation, or solidarity? Does he want to hear reasons why Minho thinks he should live? Is he asking for help in a roundabout way?

Minho wants to know, so he can say all the right things and soothe what he knows, has known for a long time, is a tired and tortured mind, at least for one night. Changbin is far too good to be wasting away with him at one in the morning by the water's edge. His good looks are impossible to miss, the talent greater than nearly anyone Minho has known, the kindness too soft to just _disappear_ \- Death simply doesn't suit Changbin, Minho thinks, and he taps his smoke. So much of it has burned away and it crumbles, but he brings the other end to his lips and takes a breath. Rather than inhaling the smoke, he allows it to curl in his mouth. It rushes out with his next words.

"I don't think living is so bad," Changbin flinches at his voice, pulling one leg close to his chest so he can rest his chin there. Bright pink cotton candy still sticks to his fingers and sits innocently in his hand. Dread makes Minho's mouth fill with saliva, sickening and terrifying. He can see the younger closing in on himself, and he wants to take what he said back. Clearly he isn't saying whatever the _right_ thing is, and he tries to keep his tone even as he continues on like nothing has happened, "I just think that there's always something more. I want to live, generally. I don't know what I'll accomplish by dying."

"Right..." The other mutters in a voice that just sounds wrong, and Minho swallows thickly. He's scared that if he speaks his next question, the situation will only travel further down the dark road it already is. He's scared to reach the point of no return. He puffs his cigarette again as he tries to build the courage, higher than his mounting anxiety. Changbin's eyes slip closed and he breathes through barely-parted lips. Minho can only think that he looks young, like a child that needs to be cared for. His skin is smooth if one discounts the slight raise of recently-formed pimples and the light scarring of old ones. His dark hair contrasts with his skin tone, tanned from hours spent in the sun. Those pale lips tremble with each breath Changbin takes, the only visible sign to Minho that he is upset. Perhaps the teenager is as scared as Minho right now. Scared of what will happen if Minho doesn't speak the right words, to bring comfort to his weary soul. He wishes that Woojin or Chan were here, to reassure the both of them. They are better than Minho, to help. But Woojin has not visited in months and Chan is surely sleeping in the arms of some stranger.

Minho taps his cigarette again.

"Binnie?" His voice turns up at the end, and it sounds so light, so unlike the way he is feeling, "Do you ever want to die?"

Changbin's laugh is painfully bitter underneath the thick layer of pretending to be okay.

"No, hyung," Heaviness. Empty. Tired. Those are just a few of the ways Minho would describe the two simple words, "I just was wondering. It's whatever, nothing big."

He isn't sure who Changbin is trying to fool, because Minho has never been less convinced of anything in his life. But the younger tears another piece of cotton candy off, rolling it into a ball before pressing his fingers together. The sugar, again, becomes sticky and they both stare at his stained fingertips. They hear nothing but the sound of the water and cars in the far distance. Changbin turns his eyes to the depths below them longingly before he holds his hand out. He allows the last of the cotton candy to slip from his grasp and into the water. Minho holds his breath- And then the atmosphere is broken by Changbin's sweetened smile as he stands, rubbing his hands on his jeans.

"C''mon, hyung, it's late. Let's go home, yeah?" Minho knows that the cheer is fake, he _does_ , but it's easier to accept it and smile along, and just hope for the fucking best because _Minho is tired too_ , so he stands too and crushes the remains of his smoke underneath his heel. With each step they take from the bridge, one pressure in his chest lightens while another grows. Getting off this bridge with Changbin is a victory in some way, enough of one to fool himself into thinking things are okay for a little longer. Even when they part, Minho tries to convince himself. He talked to Changbin. Surely no one can expect more than that from him? The boy himself had said he was _just curious_. Who is Minho to doubt and read so far into his words?

He almost has himself fooled by the time he unlocks his front door and slips inside of his empty apartment.

"I'm a good friend," He whispers to himself, "I'm a good friend."

The fact that Changbin is still alive in the morning is enough to make him pretend like nothing is wrong.


	2. Two

Woojin stares at his reflection in the dirtied mirror and wonders how he's ended up here. His lips are cracked, caked with dry blood and his throat burns with every breath. The apartment he lives in is small, just enough to fit a bed, a nightstand, and a door to the even smaller bathroom that he's standing in. The bathroom is nothing but a tiled floor with a hand-held shower head, toilet, mirror, and sink. The water works perhaps three times out of five. The dull yellow light flickers from above the aged glass he peers into. Its corners are webbed with cracks to show black beneath. He lays his hand beside his gaunt face's reflection and releases a long sigh through his nose. It still makes his throat flare with pain, and his eyes sting with tears.

How did he end up here?

Woojin can only think of his friends and wish simultaneously that they were there and for them to stay as far away as possible. Chan and his curled hair. Minho and his insinuating laugh. Changbin and his fading smile. Good and bad memories are associated with those people, those intricacies, but Woojin isolates himself instead. They don't deserve to see him break under the pressure. If he cannot be strong for them then he is nothing to them, and that's why he stays here for months and cries himself to sleep and wakes up with sore throat and bleeding lips at eight in the evening. He's truly a failure of a different breed. Woojin stares into his own deadened eyes and considers the possibilities. He has no where to go. He is frozen here, stuck, because he is no one and holds no importance in this world. He has no purchase or comfort. Woojin has himself and his dusty room and dirty bathroom and so, so many repeating thoughts. He takes one last look at the congealed blood in the cuts on his lips and turns away, turning off the buzzing lights and shutting the splintering door.

The man sits on the edge of his lumpy bed and finds his gaze on his laced hands. They are calloused and breaking, like the rest of his body, like the soul inside of it. Woojin remembers when things were a bit better, the time Minho compared their hand sizes. It had been full of laughter that squeezed your chest and made your gasp for breath, but in a good way. Now he only knows those sensations in the worst fashion. He recalls admiring the beauty of Chan's crinkled eyes and like that, he _breaks_. The phone he keeps off and away is pulled out of the nightstand's grating, dragging drawer and into those scarred hands, a guitarist's fingertips holding the power button. It lights up too brightly and burns his exhausted eyes. Fear is a bitter taste in his mouth but he works on autopilot as he dials the number he does not have saved but he knows by heart.

The rings crash into his ears and mock him.

"Hello?" Chan's pleasant, confused voice acts like the current of a lazy river, gently pulling Woojin along as something akin to peace pricks at the deadness of being so very alone, "Who is this?"

" _Channie_ ," Woojin breathes. It still fucking burns, but the younger gasps at hearing his own name and Woojin is crying tears that he can't afford to. His already-dehydrated body screams at him to stop, a cut on his calf pulses angrily, everything aches but he _misses_ Chan as much as he misses being happy and the gates have already been opened so he _speaks_ , "Channie, Channie, I miss you, I'm so _lonely_ , it hurts. I can't fix it, I can't fix myself, I'm sorry I can't be good enough. I'm sorry I can't do anything but drag you all down but _God_ it's so hard. I hate this. I can't be fixed, Channie. I can't be fixed."

"Woojin, baby, that's enough," He coos, and Woojin can hear the both relief and terror in his voice. It's funny, he thinks, all of the horrible things he makes Chan feel. He is poison and kills the younger with every word he speaks, every action he takes. He doesn't know how to do anything right. Woojin doesn't deserve any of the soft words Chan speaks through the phone's speaker and into his ear, he doesn't deserve the soothe of them at all. What he does deserve is the bitter pain that throbs with every beat of his rotted heart, the fingers that curl around each rib and snap them in time with his _stillpleasestop_ -burning breaths, the monster that breathes down his neck and makes him shiver. Oh, he certainly deserves all of that and more, and suddenly Chan's words break and turn into something different. Yes, he deserves every ounce of guilt when he hears what Chan has to say next, "Woojin, where did you _go_? Why do you always run off like that? Come home, Woojinnie, where are you? Tell me, so I can come get you."

"I miss you so much," He whispers, and the muscles of his stomach spasm, make him whimper painfully into the phone and then Chan's words change again.

"Are you okay? Are you alright? What hurts baby?" Woojin shakes his head even if Chan can't see him and he hiccups, sniffling and wiping at his wet face. It's just as disgusting as he is. Snot strings from his nose to his shaking hand, thick and gross and yellow and _Jesus_ , he's a wreck. He curls over himself and hangs his head between his knees, cellphone still clumsily pressed to his ear. He can just imagine the expression Chan is making now, eyebrows drawn close and face pinched, his precious pink lips parted as his bottom teeth entrap his upper lip. Woojin recalls what it's like to comb his fingers through the younger's thick curls and press Chan's face against his shoulder as they make love and he clenches his fingers. Just another thing he doesn't deserve. Just another burning breath. Just another choked sob.

"I wanted to hear your voice," Woojin starts and speaks over Chan's immediate denials. He wants to hear his voice but no matter how hard Chan tries he just never seems to say the right thing and it just proves to Woojin that he doesn't get to go home, "I'm sorry. I miss you."

"Don't go," Chan begs, breathy and sad and weak, "Please don't go again."

"I'm sorry."

"I love you," Chan says just before Woojin ends the call. The phone clatters to the floor and he buries his swollen face into his hands, pressing his fingers hard enough to leave bruises. He isn't good enough for someone like that, he isn't good enough for any of their friends and _that's_ how he ended up here. Woojin looks at his old and breaking surroundings and thinks that it suits someone like him well. He waits for the day that he, too, can simply turn to dust. His body continues to jolt and cry without his permission and Woojin stands, only to turn down the sheets and climb into the bed. He turns off the lamp and despite only awakening perhaps half an hour before, he curls into the stiff, scratching fabric. He's so lonely and untouchable as he stares into the darkness of his room and hopes that someone he loves is better off.


	3. Three

Damp skin and tangled limbs and low moans mixed with high whines and cheap-feeling sheets and a sense of euphoria- This is how Chan spends his time, and God is it the best and the worst. He lays in the purple bedding and stares with half-lidded eyes as his partner for the night tugs his clothes back on and apologizes for the hurry. He doesn't mind, it's not like he really gives a fuck what the man does now that they're done, but it amuses and endears him nonetheless. He absentmindedly brushes his fingers against his upper arms, the touch on his sensitive skin enough to make his breath catch and a shiver go up his spine. With a final longing, hungry glance at him and his pale thigh, exposed from under the sheets, the other leaves the hotel room and the door _clicks_.

This is when the empty feeling starts, and Chan shuts his eyes to inhale deeply. For just a few moments longer, he wants to feel his high- The way his muscles still tremble and spasm, the coat of sweat that begins to cool on his heated skin, the remaining ache of the bruising grip that held his hips, the way tension rose inside of him until it _snapped_ and the few seconds of nothing but pleasure after. But those very same feelings remind him of _Woojin_ and he chokes on his next breath and traces the edge of the ring on the chain around his neck, pinching his lips together to stop from whimpering. He feels pathetic, wasted, and Chan suddenly cannot stand to lie around any longer. He shoves the sheets that match the color of the bruises on his neck off of his body and moves quickly, yanking his clothes on even faster than they had been torn off by his guest.

Chan sighs through his nose at the thought of stranger. What was once arrogant confidence now becomes bitter disgust as he grabs his phone and wallet and exits the hotel room. It wasn't like he was the one that paid for it, and the other wouldn't return. He doesn't care about the wasted money, he cares about how much his life must be in shambles if he's slept with the fifth guy of the week and it's only Wednesday. Chan digs his fingernails into his palms while he makes his way down the dark street. It's only eleven at night so he walks down the familiar streets, his shoes sliding against the sidewalks. He feels too dead inside to put the effort into picking up his feet. His insides have become a soup of blackness that foul his breath and dissolve anything human in him. Anywhere the blackness is not, only emptiness takes up the space and he is hollow. Chan is so easily breakable like this, and so he drags himself up steps he knows by heart until he ends up at a door he hasn't knocked on in a while. He hesitates for a moment before allowing his knuckles to rap at the wood.

A few moments pass before Changbin cautiously opens his front door, and Chan listens to the anxious tapping of Changbin's nails on against it as he blinks what look like the remnants of tears from his eyes. That, paired with the closed-off body language should concern Chan, make him inquire into Changbin's well-being but in the state he's in it's like none of those things even register as they stare at each other for a few, long moments. Finally, Changbin opens his mouth and speaks in a voice roughened with some emotion he can't place.

"Hyung?"

"Binnie," Chan greets, and awkwardly shuffles his foot on the ground. The following silence consumes them and he wonders why he came here in the first place. What comfort did he think _Changbin_ of all people could provide? What could the younger possibly do for him when everyone knows he can't do anything good for himself? And what is he doing showing up at the kid's apartment at this time of night, seeking something he doesn't deserve while smelling of sex and sweat?

"Do you need something, hyung?" The teen pushes, testing the waters. Chan wonders if he actually cares or if he wants to get the conversation moving so he can rid himself of his friend faster. He ponders if the four of them are even considered friends anymore, or if they simply are such broken and deadened creatures that they cling to the remnants of things that once brought them joy. Do they hope they can save each other, or if not, they at least all get dragged down together? Chan is not like Minho, who finds himself disgusting and unbearable and tries to fake goodness to cover it up. Nor is he like Changbin, who hates himself enough to want to erase his existence. He is not even like Woojin, who believes himself irreparable and hides where none can see so he can waste away. No, instead he is dead and tries to find sensations to bring himself back to life. He wants to know which is the worst off.

"Do you think Woojin would hate me, if he knew what I was doing while he's gone?" Chan asks, and looks straight into Changbin's eyes. The boy seems thrown off by the question, but he angles his head and observes Chan, the rustled clothing and messy hair, the smudged makeup and the dark bruises littering his neck. He looks so _tired_ , and Chan regrets coming even more. Surely Changbin has more to deal with than his problems, and he physically bites his tongue. No one needs to deal with his hollowness, and with the next blink, Chan feels his own exhaustion even more. He hates that he asked that question, but he needs the answer. He needs to know what Woojin would think of him if he saw Chan right now.

"I don't think Woojin hyung would hate you," Changbin says, and for a moment, there's hope that lets him breathe a little lighter, "But, hyung, I don't think he'd like you very much, either..."

And it breaks. Anything that was brought to life for those few precious seconds is murdered, crushed underneath the heel of an unforgiving boot. Chan can't even feel the black soup in him anymore, everything has drained away and left him empty. The way his body had lit up dims and he crumbles into himself, unable to make eye contact with the person before him. Chan nods, face absent of any expression despite how his shoulders hunch smaller.

"Right. Right, I- I should go. Sorry for bothering you," He turns around and it's like that's the final clue that lets Changbin know he said the wrong thing. He reaches for Chan's sleeve but he moves out of the way in time.

"No, hyung, come in, you came all the way here," Desperation leaks from his voice but Chan simply half-turns and offers the ghost of a smile. His knows it's enough to make his dimples show, to make him appear like he isn't nothing but a walking corpse. Something buzzes in his ears but he can't really identify it as he shoves his hands in his pockets.

"Nah, sorry for bothering you at this time of night, Binnie. Sleep well, yeah?" And he turns, escapes from the hallways that close in on him and tell him everything he doesn't want to know. Chan is well aware of his own weaknesses, his own faults, and surely those have something to do with why everyone pushes away from him. He wants to feel human emotion and connection, to bare his soul to others and bond, but no one lets him for long and so he bares his body instead and that's just going to have to work, because Chan has nothing else.


	4. Four

In the end, Changbin realizes it's his fault.

Maybe if he hadn't let it slip to Minho that he knew where Woojin has been hiding, maybe if he hadn't let Woojin know about Minho's _terrifying_ trip to the hospital, maybe if he hadn't fucked up and told Chan that Woojin wouldn't like him very much, things wouldn't be ending up so fractured. But the truth is, he has done all those things and the consequences are staring him in the face. He remembers Chan coming to him a handful of weeks- Or God, months, now? Changbin can't keep track of dates anymore, it takes up too much of his limited will and energy-  Ago, eyes wild with a need for acceptance and reassurance. For his friendship. But instead he had said the thing that would hurt his friend the most, no matter how true it was.

_"Right. Right, I- I should go. Sorry for bothering you," Chan says and Changbin knows he's really done it this time. He reaches for Chan's sleeve, breath picking up because he doesn't know how to fix this mess, but the older dodges and it's a fruitless effort to try to get him to stay. He already knows how badly he's messed up, but the apologies are stuck in his throat. They burn him and hurt him more than he can think to express. Changbin feels the scratches on his thighs burn and he is just glad the other is too caught up in his own worries to see, but then even more guilt fills him at the thought and he is almost gasping with how tight his chest feels. Maybe this is what dying feels like, and if so, it sounds good enough to him. Living isn't doing anything good anyway, and if it hurts this bad, he deserves it, definitely._

_"No, hyung, come in, you came all the way here," He tries. A weak attempt, and he nearly laughs at himself._

_"Nah, sorry for bothering you at this time of night, Binnie. Sleep well, yeah?" Changbin lets Chan walk away and the following thirty-two hours without hydration is his punishment for being so fucking useless._

And now Changbin is stuck being useless again, hiding by the doorway to the sad, crumbling room Woojin lives in as he listens into the eldest's conversation with Minho. He tries not to remember the way he had to hold onto Minho's small, cold hand as they waited for the doctor to tell them the results of the tests because she just _had_ to do it in person and _Jesus_ he remembers Minho's smile as he tried to assure Changbin of all people that everything was gonna be fine, no matter what the tests said. As always, it boils down to _Changbin being a shitty friend and useless excuse for a human_, because there just isn't anything else to him. He's a fucking waste of space and forgets how to breathe again as Minho reaches out to someone that can maybe do something for him, but then-

"You know, Minho, if you didn't puff and smoke, cancer wouldn't even be a concern?" Woojin says it gently, sure, but the blow strikes Changbin in the heart and he can't imagine how Minho feels. He peeks around the corner and wants to cry out because he sees the stiffness in the other's posture, the way his vulnerability hardens and his eyes become that much sadder. Changbin wants to scream- Minho had told him looking for _support_ , _understanding_ , _help_ , and Woojin just disregards it and drags him down instead. It has to be Changbin's influence, fuck, he's really gone and done it to all of them, "I know- I know why you started. I get that. But shouldn't you stop? What happens when you start other, worse things?"

Changbin can see the words behind Minho's tongue- _Why do you think I'm smoking instead? Do you really want to take away the one thing that's keeping me from going there?_ but the older just swallows and shuts his eyes.

"Well, they came back negative anyway," His voice is weak. Changbin catches the way Woojin leans forward slightly, running his fingertips down his own calf- He's aware he said the wrong thing. He can catch that habit of Woojin's anywhere.

"This time," And Changbin flees. He can't bear to watch it any longer, his chest is bursting and his eyes are full of tears and he hates himself so much that he doesn't know what to do with it anymore. He hates this, he hates the situation, he hates it all as he bursts onto the fire escape of the fourteenth floor. His calves are screaming at him as he takes the steps three at a time. Changbin's foot catches on a step by the seventeenth floor and he falls hard. His knee slams into another step the same time his face does and he tastes the blood on his lip. It burns and he thinks his tight jeans are irritating the scratches that cover his thighs again. Changbin tries to catch his breath as he presses his hand messily to his face, but what's the point? All it does is hurt more and his whole body throbs and a sob leaves his throat. He isn't fucking finished running yet, and he drags himself up to start the race again. _Up_ , that's where he needs to be. Up until he can reach the rooftop. The night wind blows through his stupid, ugly undercut and makes him shiver. He wants to know how you can be numb while every muscle aches and every nerve is on fire.

He reaches the roof and stops for a moment. He doesn't understand, truly. Changbin doesn't understand why he is so bad for the people around him. It's all his fault- His friends didn't used to be as broken and hurt as him. They used to be there for him, patting his tears dry and offering comfort and the right words and smiles and good memories. But with every moment he lives, Changbin poisons them, turns them rotten and ruins anything happy inside of them. They always had brighter futures than he did, but they stuck by his side and he sucked them down to hell with him. He thinks he hates that the most. He can't remember the last time Minho's joyful laugh graced his ears genuinely, or when he felt the love that radiates from Chan's embrace, or when he even saw Woojin smile.

They were fine until Changbin wasn't fine, and then they all broke to pieces.

It's his fault. Changbin looks over the edge of the roof. He thinks the end of his life is a long-time coming, honestly. He hasn't given anything to the world, only ruined and ate away at the three most beautiful people in it. The scratches on his thighs burn in stubborn agreement. Fuck. The wind makes him shiver, the city lights are so damn bright, and he closes his eyes and thinks of Minho and his smoking and the way he tries to pretend he doesn't find every move he makes disgusting. He thinks of Woojin and how he shuts himself in that room to rot away alone so no one else sees. He thinks of Chan who needs all of them and if he can't have them then he lies with strangers to make up for the emptiness. Those are the people who have given him so much. Who he has lived for this long. Who have said the wrong things and yet, they'd tried nonetheless. It's scary to peer over the edge and think that he will never see them again if he finally does this.

Changbin shuts his eyes and the night's wind blows through his hair.


End file.
